


The Kindness of Strangers

by threewalls



Series: Schirra [58]
Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: 709 OV, Balfonheim, F/M, First Meetings, First Time, Fisting, Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-23
Updated: 2009-02-23
Packaged: 2017-10-15 03:25:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/156548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threewalls/pseuds/threewalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Balthier and Fran creatively revisit their first meeting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Kindness of Strangers

You catch her eye from across the crowded floor: the viera perched by the bar like something magical, the first thing you've seen that meets, no-- exceeds the promises your father's library had made about the world beyond the city limits. She's lovely, elegant beyond this petty den of vice, swathed in something gauzy and leaf-green, which obscures her figure like a wood obscures its trees.

Your name is Balthier, now, Bal-thier. There's a brandy flavoured with black raspberries, tart and thick on the tongue, far too upmarket for this particular venue; her eyes remind you of that. They follow you as you approach. You had settled on the neutral offer of a drink, but she stands when you reach her, so you ask if she'd like to see your ship, instead.

She tells you to buy a room.

Upstairs, you strip your jacket, drop your belts; the viera unstraps her sandals. Everything else follows. The bed is wide, but you use so little of it, lying between her exquisitely long legs. Archadian girls never tell you what they want, not even if you show your hand to the point of asking, but the viera is happy to divulge her secrets: that the clasps at her shoulder, undone, leave her dress tight only about her waist, that her shoulders and her neck desire your teeth ("Bite me."), her breasts, your lips and the broader path of your tongue. You shiver at the guiding touch of her hand behind your head, the scalloped cutting edges of her nails drawing out a secret of their own. The silk of her dress lies ruffled between you, green froth covering nothing of her strong legs, her white fur-- your fingertips find her already liquid. You haven't yet untucked your shirt.

The viera's hand slides down over your neck, her thumb wrapping under your chin, tilting your head up. You still-- swallow, despite yourself, against the fingernail across your throat. She reaches for your hand with her other, circling the base of your three medial fingers, compressing them together, and plunges them inside herself.

"--Fuck." It takes a moment to clear your head, her ready heat, her _depth_. "Fran."

Fran tilts her head on the pillows below you, loose hair curving about her face. Ffamran would have missed the shift in her expression, that her sharp vision now focused entirely on your eyes, your face. Her hand across your neck loosens, and then slides to cup your shoulder.

"If I were as young as I was feigning, I would have lost myself entirely just there."

"You are young."

Fran's voice is always matter of fact, but you flinch even as she continues, as her eyes glaze distant, as she turns her head away: "We both are."

Her grip on your palm tightens, and you are reminded that Fran has been uncommonly assertive as this mystery viera. You knew that you would know Ffamran like the study of an Akademy photograph, that this Balthier has only a little more wear. But you did not expect this striking change in Fran, who seems timeless in your memories, ever present and eternal, though you are so often a different man.

You asked for this fantasy, in jest and in wanting, though you flatter yourself if you ever thought that only the former showed. When she assented, you thought it an indulgence. You did not guess that she would have her own side to the story, but it's not incompatible with your own. Balthier did not yet wear rings when he met Fran. You bend your fingers; Fran makes a low noise, deep in her throat.

"Four."

"Four?"

"Fingers," Fran pants. "Please. More."

It is arrogance to think that you know her flesh well enough for this, that you can place trust and action in your own imagined estimate of her capacity. She will take Basch's cock, the monster, in her cunt, and in her arse with only a little more preparation, though your jaw cannot and your body will not. You are jealous, but he is not here. It's your hand she wants, your fist, and if you're jealous it's because you know what it is to fall short. You never want to hurt her.

But Fran trusts you-- she must, to ask for this-- so you trust yourself, lick four fingers awkwardly into your own mouth. You are Balthier, bravado a far more suitable surname than your father's left behind and she is a woman who thinks you capable of miracle.

Fran is exceptionally wet when it pleases her, and from the feel of things, she is exceptionally pleased. Good. Still, you slick her and you lick her, your pointed tongue caressing the arc of your four knuckles and her swollen clit. You want her wetter yet, relaxed of body but aroused of mind. You have a plan. Her spice is half-medicinal with lubricant, but you lick and you suck, her thigh shaking under your shoulder and finally, Fran holds your head, a grip you can relax into. You know the rhythm she needs, the coordinated pace of your tongue and fingers, curved to reach that soft place inside. She floods your face, crushes your fingers-- and this is only the groundwork, but you have a cunning plan and it will have success.

You wipe your hand on the sheets, and grease your hand very, very, very well. Fran takes back your four fingers easily, a welcome, warm grip.

"You said more," you tell her. "Would that be more than four?"

Fran's eyes are open, wide but unseeing, turned to the wall. She isn't watching you, but she clenches on the word "four." You can feel her pulse with your fingers. You watch the measured rise and fall of her breasts, the clench and release of her own fist higher on the bed. You align your thumb with your smallest finger, hope and push.

Fran's breath hitches, but it is your body that shivers. There is a lump in your throat that impedes your drive to swallow. You stroke the long lines of her legs, frozen spread but easing. You watch the strain on her face, her tongue licking sweat from her upper lip. You breathe with her, and you push.

Her body opens, not like a flower, but like flesh, as it opened for four fingers, now for five, now for your knuckles, now for your fist, the tight, hot, slick clench of her about your whole fist. She is amazing-- you say that, you say a lot of things just then, repetitive and cliché and new and exactly right.

You wonder if she can come like this, and she tells you no, shaking her head, still looking at the wall, the tension cording in her neck. She asks for more.

You dare not fuck her with your fist-- maybe next time, this is going too well for there not to be a next time-- but you are Balthier, nothing if not creative. This is Fran. You know what she likes. You grease two fingers on your other hand and tease the hole under her tail. She moans, heels digging into the bed to angle up her hips.

"Seven?" you ask her, smug because Fran grips your shoulder, pushing you down.

Fran shakes beneath you, her legs taut, toes cutting the sheets to ribbons. This casual destruction pleases you, that you and she are stronger than the bed. Your fingers fuck her deep and quick, but steady. You bite at her hipbones. You rotate your buried wrist. You can feel her accelerated heartbeat in your fist. You fuck her until her pants become breathless, her body folds, snapping sitting upright as her pleasure hits her, and you abandon fucking her for holding her, biting your lip at the bruising, shivering pressure at your wrist.

Fran kisses you, and you rub her back. She grazes your groin with her fingernails. You've been hard, but a controlled burn, measured. Her touch draws your concentration down, down below your fly.

She pulls back to recline, and slowly, slowly, slowly, in time with her breath, you take back your hand. You flex the fingers. They are dripping. Fran tells you to stroke yourself. Her legs are spread around you still.

You open your fly with your left hand, frowning, wishing you had a spare. Your right is almost too wet for friction, the first few slippery pulls nothing but frustration. Your knuckles ache. But this is your performance, this she will watch, supine, drowsy, the hair you'll comb in the morning gnarled about her face. Fran tells you to come on her. You stripe her breasts ("Shut your eyes."), her collarbone, her mouth. You want to fill her everywhere.

 

Later, you wipe your hand, and Fran accedes to a towel between her legs and a sheet drawn up to her breasts. You think she sleeps, and you smile to see her so sated. You strip only then, your shoes, your trousers and your shirt.

The room seems colder as you stand there, considering. Ffamran would wash, dress and leave a thank-you note. Balthier would check the viera's few pockets for items of interest and leave all the same. Naked, you are only yourself, gooseflesh on your moon-white skin. You've bought the room for the evening, the morning. You sit on the edge of the bed.

Fran's skin is warm behind you, the sheet behind her wrapping you both in her heat. Her weight leans on you, but you like that.

"You wouldn't do that with someone you'd just met."

"I thought you had very long fingers," Fran says. "When I met you."

With her arms around you, she takes hold of your hands, smelling both over your shoulder but keeping the one, the right. "Long fingers and a close manicure. Men like that often have experience."

So, she thought you were a twink, a twink with a fondness for hand-balling. When Balthier met Fran, he thought that she was an animal, useful, perhaps, the way Nono is, for her knowledge and strength (pity about the legs that went on forever). Tonight is a better story, but there's always next time.

"So, you've done that before."

"Only four. Some acts are easier to ask of strangers... than they are to accept."

She licks the back of your shoulder, your neck, kisses with more tongue than lips. You are not looking at each other, but you squeeze her hand, she squeezes back.


End file.
